


Haunted

by PericulaLudus



Series: Hurt/Comfort Bingo 2018 [1]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Backstory, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-07-18
Packaged: 2019-06-12 10:38:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15338067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PericulaLudus/pseuds/PericulaLudus
Summary: Tréville arrives at the border to Savoy, not knowing what the Duke has done to his men.





	Haunted

„Where are the musketeers?“

The boy stared at Tréville for a moment, then turned heel and ran into the closest house, slamming and barring the door behind him.

“Oi, you there!” Tréville hollered at a man further down the road. He spurred on his tired horse, but the man disappeared before he could reach him.

Tréville stopped in the village square in front of a squat little church. He could see curtains moving, shadowy figures lurking just out of sight. Tréville cursed and dismounted. He knew his men were here. Had been here. He had planned their route with Lazare, knew the villages they would pass, but not their precise camp sites. They would have been in this area on Good Friday.

Easter. He had ridden straight through it all, shunning every mass or celebration to get to his men. He turned to the church now, but strictly for worldly matters. He’d find people there, people and information. 

To his surprise, the church’s heavy oak door was barred. That much for providing sanctuary to those in need. He knocked.

“Open, in the name of the King!”

He had to call twice more before there was a shuffling on the other side.

“Which king do you serve? Tell the truth, in the name of the Lord.”

Tréville snorted. Had that tedious Duke gained so much influence in these parts they now called him king?

“Louis, by God’s grace King of France,” he answered.

“May the Lord protect him,” the voice said. “What do you want?”

“Answers. Open the door so we may speak.”

The voice hesitated. “Who are you, stranger?”

“Captain Tréville of the King’s Musketeers.”

Several gasps could be heard from within, then murmured conversation. Tréville knocked again. “I command you to open the door.”

He kept hammering against the door until it was opened. He immediately put his foot into the small gap and was met with a crucifix held in a shaky hand.

“What is this nonsense?” Tréville growled, thrusting his shoulder against the door. A wide-eyed priest and a small group of terrified townsfolk cowered in the chapel, some mumbling prayers under their breath. The priest held his crucifix in front of his face. Whatever was happening here, Tréville was uninterested.

“Where are the musketeers?” he asked.

The priest looked panicked. His lips moved frantically, but without sound. Behind him, a woman burst into tears. Tréville had no time for this.

“Answer me or you will feel the wrath of the King,” he barked.

“They passed through three days ago,” the priest replied.

“They did not stay here?” Tréville asked against hope. He knew they didn’t, there was no point to winter training if the men slept in cosy inns. A training exercise. Training…

“They rode on,” the priest said “Into the woods, that’s all I know, I swear in the—”

“Where?” Tréville cut him off. The priest pointed in a north-easterly direction. Towards Chambéry. Towards him. Towards her and that Spanish spy.

Tréville had already mounted his horse when the priest squeaked “Don’t go. There’s an evil spirit there.”

“An evil spirit?” Tréville asked out of habit more than interest.

“A ghost. The ghost of a musketeer,” a woman supplied. The group, emboldened by the priest’s confession, stepped out into the hazy daylight.

“Wore a cloak like yours,” a man added, gesturing at Tréville. “We chased him off two days ago.”

“Chased him off?” Two days. A musketeer. Two days ago. Two days. According to Tréville’s calculations, the message must have reached the Duke before then. He would have had time to act by then, while Tréville was still racing South from Paris, riding like a mad man, changing horses at every opportunity, resting only when he could no longer keep himself in the saddle.

“Came to haunt us, but we won’t suffer spirits here. The power of our prayer drove it away. This is a God-fearing village, Monsieur,” the priest said.

Tréville pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a frustrated sigh. “Then why this talk of ghosts?”

“You should have seen him. His cloak was in tatters and his face, his face…”

“It was very ghostly,” a young woman added. “Full of blood and his eyes… he had the Devil in his eyes.”

They all crossed themselves.

“And his horse, black as death, smoke from its nostrils and all.”

“The Devil’s beast for sure.”

“He’s cursed to walk the earth for all eternity.”

“He wants revenge, I tell you.”

Revenge. The word made Tréville shudder. His horse snorted, sensing his agitation. The cacophony of voices grew louder, the villagers clambering to tell Tréville their version of the fantastical tale. They were elbowing each other in their eagerness to get closer, one shouting over the other.

Tréville had heard enough of their idiotic superstition and spurred his horse on in the direction the priest had indicated. He had barely eaten since he left Paris, but now that he was so close to his destination, he felt bile rising in his throat. Paris seemed far away from here.

It had been a simple enough plan. An operation to extract a Spanish spy and protect the Duchess. The Cardinal had his own men in Savoy, but with the musketeers so close to the border, it was only natural to request their assistance. Assistance. Tréville huffed out a humourless laugh. Richelieu had not revealed the recipient of the message containing the musketeers’ route until the next day. Not one of his men, but the Duke of Savoy. And with it the news of a fictitious plan of regicide.

God only knew how Savoy would react to that. Had reacted to it when he received the message.

Tréville gritted his teeth. It was ominous that he had not met a single musketeer on the road. Certainly, Lazare had sent out a messenger to alert the garrison of any assault. No injured men in the village either. It boded ill. Had they all been captured? Dragged away to Chambéry to be tortured for information they could not possibly confess?

Every step of his horse brought him closer to an answer.

The comfortable heated room at the palace where he had made his decision seemed another world from the cold, misty forest in which his men… He couldn’t allow himself to think that to its conclusion. He didn’t know. Not yet.

Yet every step of his horse brought him closer.

The first sign were the crows. Great big birds circling overhead, their rough caws cleaving the wintery silence.

Tréville reached a small clearing.

He saw them then and had his certainty. The men had made camp here, tents nestled between winter-barren trees. The remnants of a cooking fire, pot askew now, embers long since doused by wind and snow.

The crows rose in a mad flutter of wings as he approached. Their cawing echoed in his ears as he sank to his knees, forfeiting his fight against the bile. His men. His men were spent. He had killed them all.

Next to him lay Dassault on his back in nothing but his linens, eyes closed as if asleep on the frozen ground. His bloodless sword had dropped from numb fingers, a dark stain blooming on his chest.

Brothers Nicolas and Guillaume had been slain as they slept, tent and throats slashed. A few feet away, young Gilles was nearly torn in two by a cruel stomach wound, his pistol still loaded in his frozen hand. He had only received his commission a few short months ago. The celebration had been large, a testament to how well-liked the determined lad was among his regiment. How much he would be missed.

Laurent’s dark skin seemed grey in death. Tréville trusted all his men with his life, but Laurent… quiet and reliable, in charge of the armoury since the beginning, he had been a pillar of the garrison. He had the respect of the men and Tréville knew how hard it was for some to give that to a black man, musketeer or not. Tréville sighed as he uselessly tried to brush dried blood from Laurent’s lips. Maybe his example had at least made it easier for those who followed.

Lazare, in charge of these men, had at least managed to don his full uniform. Tréville carefully closed the eyes of his second in command. He should have led these men himself, should have died with them. Only there would have been no death without him in Paris to betray his regiment. He gave up the location of his men for the sake of France. Sacrificed them under instruction of their King, but… It was still Tréville who killed them.

He walked in slow, slow circles around their fire, dragging his feet through the bloody snow. There were no enemy bodies anywhere. Tréville balled his fists. They must have been utterly overwhelmed, the Duke reacting with excessive force to the unfounded accusations.

It had been quick. Most had died in their tents or right in front of them. Only a few had reached the paltry cover of the trees. Hubert and Marin, clearly on guard duty that night, lay further away. Only two of them, only two guards. There should have been more. They should have been… prepared somehow. Prepared for what? The treachery of their captain? They were on a training exercise, in the border region between France and one of its closest allies. There was no reason to be on their guard. They were safe, safe but for the dagger in the back, the dagger he himself had wielded.

He spent some time with each of his men, scouring his mind for the right words to apologise, but unable to think any further than the confession he knew he must never make. He yearned for the confessional, for the penance, the forgiveness, and yet he knew it would not come. He had killed them his men. The Cardinal added his own vitriol, but Tréville delivered the fatal blow when he betrayed their location, this location. He would find no absolution.

In the end, he merely said their names, one after the other. He did not avert his eyes, no matter how gruesome their injuries. He owed them that. Twenty-two men. Twenty-two lives cut short.

A crow settled onto poor Gilles’ chest. Tréville tried to shoo it away, but it would not budge. It turned to face him and Tréville jumped. The bird had eyes as white as the snow around it. Dead eyes, the Devil’s eyes. Tréville turned his back to it, watching its companions flutter from one body to the next and realised that he had been reduced to this. A helpless captain, unable to protect his men, not even from the carrion birds.

He knelt long with the young Breton his men had nicknamed Corsair. He’d had high hopes for him. Skills learned on the streets and ships of the notorious pirate harbour of Saint-Malo were complemented by an eager mind and a natural talent for command. Tréville plucked at the crude bandage tied around a wound on Corsair’s upper arm. A man to maybe, one day, lead his musketeers into battle. A dead man, now.

Tréville paused. Why the bandage? How? Looking around, he noticed several other men also sporting bandages. Strips of linen torn from shirts and cloaks, hurriedly tied around their wounds. Which meant… No. He shouldn’t get his hopes up. His men were dead. He’d killed them all. But someone must have applied those bandages. The villagers? Unlikely, given their pathetic display and their fear of some ghost. A ghost. The ghost of a musketeer. A ghost, or maybe a musketeer? A musketeer who lived and tried to aid his brothers?

With renewed energy, Tréville rose to his feet. Not everyone was dead, or at least not everyone had been killed in the initial assault. There was some hope, however slim, that there was a survivor. And he would cling to that.

He resumed his slow circling around the camp site. The further he walked, the more daring the crows became, settling back onto the bodies of his men, pecking at defenceless faces.

Eventually, he had to admit defeat. There were no signs of battle this far from the campsite. No sign of any survivor either. The tracks of the Savoyan riders showed that they had circled the camp and then retreated towards the border. Where he was searching, nothing seemed to have been disturbed, no branches shattered by a stray bullet, no scattered debris of the fight. The snow cover was not consistent enough to track the horses that had run off into the forest, but he was certain he had searched the expanse of the fight. No sign of a man who still drew breath.

In a day or two, his men would be here, trusted soldiers he had sent for after his hasty departure from Paris. Soldiers who would see to their dead brothers. Tréville wanted to spare them that sight, but did not think he could. He was weak, unable to dig the graves in the frozen earth. He was a coward, unable to face the horror he created. He could barely move one of the stiff and frozen body, much less twenty-two.

Twenty-one maybe. That stubborn little hope still clung to life. Those bandages… someone must have applied them.

He counted the bodies, slowly, one after the other. So, so many lay dead.

Twenty.

He counted again.

Twenty dead men.

Twenty, not twenty-two.

Two men were missing.

“Marsac,” Tréville breathed, clutching his heart. “Marsac and Aramis. The inseparables.”

Two young men with confidence bordering on arrogance, and good reasons to be proud of their fighting prowess and achievements.

Two halves of a whole, very seldom found apart, encouraging each other to the point of obnoxiousness with their shows of skill as well as their endless womanising.

Two musketeers he had praised more than most; he had chuckled at their antics, and hailed them as examples for recruits.

Two brothers who would not abandon each other no matter the cost.

Two inseparables who had weathered this storm together, who had survived, who had somehow escaped the slaughter.

They lived and maybe Tréville would be able to live with himself, with his deeds and his decisions, as long as those two still breathed.

There was nothing to be done in the forest, nothing he could do to help those poor men. But he could still do something for the survivors, for Marsac and Aramis. He urged his horse on, back to the village. A ghost; such ignorance. No ghost, but a musketeer, not one, but two. Because he knew those two would stick together.

The ignorant villagers insisted that there had been only one ghost and one horse, but Tréville knew better. At least they could point him in the direction their ghost had walked. He would bring down the full wrath of the musketeers onto the cretins who had denied help to his men.

Tréville rode slowly along the deserted road, bent low over his horse’s neck. The mist grew denser and he could not see more than a few yards ahead. The frozen ground was too hard to hold any tracks he could follow. He wrapped his cloak around his body and tried to penetrate the fog with his eyes, unwilling to miss a sign, however small. He could not bear the thought of his two musketeers, injured and cold, in a ditch by the side of the road, silently watching him ride past. He would find them. He would save them. He would not fail them again.

Two days since they had come this way, two days in the cold. Had they reached another village, the next town? Had they found assistance anywhere? Or had they been left to their own devices? Aramis was an excellent medic, but what could he do here? How badly injured was he himself?

A hare darted out of the undergrowth, startling him from his ruminations. The horse shied back, stomping restlessly. Tréville fought to bring his mount back under control. For a moment they stood still. Tréville stroked the horse’s neck and shushed it. Just a hare. No new horror. While he did so, his eyes roamed and caught on the slightest hint of blue. Musketeers blue. A strip of a cloak caught—no tied to a branch. It hung on a thorny bush to the right of the road. Tréville scanned the area and detected a faint path leading off through the bushes towards the ruins of a farmhouse.

He ran his fingers over the piece of cloth, made to untie it, then stopped himself. If it was a sign, he should leave it. He did not know who was intended to find it. Marsac? Aramis? Had they split up? Had one left the other in the ruin? Or was it a signal to keep to the road? He hesitated and peered uncertainly into the mist.

The farmhouse first, he decided. It would be quick to search and then he could continue on his way. Or stay there with one or both of his musketeers. He led his horse down the overgrown path, carefully picking his way through the thicket. He could see no blood on the ground, which heartened him greatly, but somebody had certainly been here recently, trampling twigs as they went.

The house itself was utterly abandoned, remnants of a door hanging crookedly in its frame, the roof half collapsed. The outer wall of the stables had a large hole, stones crumbling where plants had sprung up between them. Tréville tied his horse outside and started his search in the stables.

The rotting leaves of the previous autumn had gathered in a corner, but there was no sign of any furnishings. Anything useful had probably been taken long ago. A narrow door led him into the main house, the low, dark building typical for tenant farmers. There was ash in the fireplace and signs of an abandoned camp, but it was impossible to tell how long ago anyone had passed through. It might have been days, but it could as well have been months. A smaller sleeping chamber branched off from the main room. Its only window was high up and covered by a sackcloth. When Tréville stooped in the low doorway, the room was nearly completely dark. In the far corner, he could discern a bundle of dirty rags left behind by some vagrant or traveller. He turned back and continued his search in the smaller outbuildings.

He found no evidence of his missing musketeers.

The blue cloth had not been a sign then, or at least not a sign to search here. He would press onwards until nightfall if necessary. Marsac and Aramis were still out there.

He would not fail his men again.

He would find them and bring them home.

He scrubbed a hand across his face as he exited the last shed. His head throbbed and his eyes stung, but there was no time to be wasted.

He instinctively drew his sword when he noticed a second horse next to his own. He lingered for a moment, keeping the shed at his back, scanning the area. A horse, but no trace of its owner. Initial tension ebbing away, he took a step towards the black mare. She danced away from him and snorted in agitation. She bore no saddle, only a light halter. Her coat was caked in mud. Twigs and dry leaves were tangled in her mane and tail. She was nervous, but still sought contact with him. Tréville gently stroked her muzzle and explored the dark patches on her neck. Some looked suspiciously like blood, but she seemed uninjured. Looking at her more closely, he suddenly froze.

He knew her.

She was Aramis’ horse.

She picked up on his anxiety immediately, pulling away from him.

“What happened to you, girl?” Tréville asked, trying to keep his voice low and even. “Did you run away? Were you scared that night? And now you came to me? You here to help me find your master? Good girl, good girl…”

He slowly moved towards his saddle bags. If he could fetch a length of rope, he’d be able to lead her, to take her with him on his search. She was anxious at the best of times, rarely letting anyone but Aramis touch her, utterly devoted to him. Tréville had never truly asked how those two had come to be together, but he doubted that Aramis would have been able to afford a horse like her. He moved slowly and kept up a steady stream of reassurances.

Eventually he managed to tie some rope to her halter, but as he made to mount his horse, she pulled sharply, refusing to be moved. Tréville understood she had seen horrible things. He had seen the bodies of the horses next to the men, struck by stray bullets in the dark. The animal had his sympathy, but he needed to move on. Instead he found himself being dragged towards the farmhouse by the mare. No matter what he said, he could not get her to calm down.

“Are you showing me something?” he asked. She snorted, as if in reply. Tréville stroked her neck. “Where did you leave your master and his friend?”

He took up the rope again, hoping she might guide him towards his men, thinking they might be close, hiding somewhere in the woods or in some hut he hadn’t found. But the horse wouldn’t move away from the house. Tréville sighed.

“I searched in there,” he said. He shook his head at his own lunacy. As if he needed to justify his actions to a horse. “Even if they were here before, they aren’t now.”

Nevertheless, he stepped into the ruin again. He had no other leads. He would not have missed two musketeers, but maybe another scrap of blue cloth had escaped him. He kneaded his forehead and blinked his eyes, willing his tired mind to focus on the smallest detail. He scoured the main room but found nothing of any relevance. The remnants of a fire, various scraps and rotting leaves, a broken bottle. Nothing to indicate that anyone had been here recently.

He moved on to the bed chamber once more. Still nothing but the rags in the corner. Nothing that he could find in the gloom. Longing for some light, he ripped the cloth from the window and had another look around. He took a step back when he saw the glint of a pistol pointing at his chest.

Tréville held his breath.

The rags had shifted slightly to reveal a hand holding a pistol and part of a pale, dirty face surrounded by matted dark hair.

“Aramis,” Tréville breathed, moved and relieved by the unexpected sight. Finally, he’d found one of his men alive and where Aramis was, Marsac would be as well. They were here, they were alive.

The finger on the trigger squeezed and Tréville dived to the side, knowing as he did so that it was too late. He had been too caught up in his thoughts to notice the shot in time. He waited for the noise, for the pain of the bullet hitting his body. Instead he hit the dirt floor. No sound, no pain.

No shot.

He looked over at his musketeer. Aramis sat with his knees tucked into his chest, wrapped in tattered clothes, the pistol still in his hand, his finger crooked.

He had attempted to fire an unloaded weapon, but did not appear to notice his mistake.

“Aramis,” Tréville said tentatively, rising to his knees. “It’s me, Tréville. Your—” He cleared his throat. “Your captain.”

Aramis made no reply. He stared unblinkingly at Tréville, but did not appear to see him.

“You’re safe now,” Tréville tried again.

If Aramis heard him at all, he gave no indication. Tréville slowly scooted closer on his knees and reached out to take the weapon from Aramis’ hand. It was too easy to remove it, Aramis’ fingers simply dropping with no resistance or complaint.

As soon as Tréville had the pistol, Aramis seemed to crumble. His hand dropped limply to the floor, his head sank to his knees and he curled in on himself even further.

Tréville held his breath, afraid that Aramis had died in front of him, but in the silence he could clearly hear his breathing, weak and rasping, but undeniably there.

“Aramis,” Tréville said again. He couldn’t stop himself from repeating his name. The name of a survivor. The name of one who was still there, one musketeer he hadn’t killed. He put a soothing hand onto the soldier’s forehead, briefly registering how cold it was. The meagre shelter of the abandoned house had not done much to keep the young man warm. He brushed the hair from Aramis’ face and discovered a folded rag tied around a jagged cut that meandered into his hairline. His fingers snagged in hair matted with dried blood. A head injury. It did not seem severe, but might explain Aramis’ confusion.

“What have they done to you?” Tréville asked, gently tilting Aramis’ head upwards. The dark eyes seemed unable to focus on him, further evidence of a head injury.

“Killed,” Aramis whispered, voice hoarse.

Tréville smiled grimly, stroking Aramis’ hair. “I know, son,” he said. “But I found you, you’re safe now. How are you?”

Aramis’ eyes were floating aimlessly. “Dead,” he replied.

Tréville swallowed heavily. “Not you, son, not you. You’re here with me, you’re alive.”

He reached a hand around the back of Aramis neck, drawing closer to him. He wasn’t shivering, but his skin was cold and up close it was evident that his lips were blue. Tréville shrugged out of his cloak and draped it carefully around the young soldier. Aramis let him manipulate his body, but did not move on his own. He would have dropped his head again, but Tréville kept the hold on his neck, desperate to look at his face, to see his eyes, to see that he was, indeed, alive. He hadn’t killed them all.

“Where’s Marsac?” Tréville asked.

Aramis made a choked noise. “Gone.”

Gone to get help, Tréville’s mind supplied. Couldn't move quickly with Aramis. Hid him here. But then why the sign on the road? Why draw attention to his injured brother?

“Where did he go?”

Aramis shook his head rapidly. “Gone, gone, gone,” he repeated.

Tréville’s mind changed track. “He’s dead?”

Aramis made a high-pitched whine, like an animal in pain and tried to curl up even further. Tréville tugged at his hair. He had to know.

“Answer me!”

Aramis’ face contorted in pain, his lips forming a silent scream. Tréville shook him.

“Where is Marsac?”

“Gone,” Aramis whimpered. “Gone, gone, not dead, gone…”

 “Did he go to get help?” Tréville pressed. “Is he coming back?”

Aramis shook his head, his whole body. “Gone,” he muttered. “Marsac’s gone… gone… not coming back… is gone…”

His mumbling became unintelligible.

“Aramis,” Tréville breathed, drawing the young musketeer closer, wrapping him into his arms and resting his head against his chest. “Come here, son, come. I’ve got you. You’re safe. You’re safe now, son, I’m here.”

He kept talking even though there was nothing to say. The safety was an illusion, and him being here, him, the one who had condemned his men do death, who had caused Aramis’ injury… There was no comfort there. But there was nothing to be done about the past, nothing he could change, just Aramis, here in his arms, breathing and alive. His last hope, his only hope.

He rocked them gently back and forth, waiting for Aramis to sink into his embrace, to relax. He didn’t. He did nothing to resist either, simply remained curled up and motionless and somehow very far away.

Tréville held him tighter. The minute movement of Aramis’ shoulders as he breathed became a lifeline for Tréville, one that he clung to with all his might. One of them still breathed. Images of cut throats and smashed skulls danced before his eyes. Gone. All of them, except Aramis.

Tréville buried his face in Aramis’ hair and cried.

They stayed like that for a long time, neither man moving a muscle. Eventually, Tréville pulled himself together and sat up straighter, jostling Aramis. The room had gone dark around them, the dim sun starting to fail. Tréville stretched his neck and rubbed circles on Aramis’ shoulders.

“Better get you in the warmth somewhere,” he said. “Get some food into you and I’d like a physician to look at that cut.”

Aramis’ shoulders rose and fell, but there was no sign that he had heard, that he did or didn’t agree, no sound or movement at all. Tréville sighed, at a loss of how to get his musketeer the aid he needed. He could of course light a fire in the ruin and they would make it through the night like that, but Aramis deserved so much more. He did not wish to return to the village, for the lack of a decent inn as much as the superstitious nature of its people, but the next town was several miles away. He doubted Aramis could walk that far. Quite apart from any injuries, he probably had not eaten for days.

“What do you think,” he said, pulling Aramis’ head up. “As much as I want you to rest, you’d be more comfortable in a proper bed. We could reach the next town in an hour or two if you feel up to riding.”

Aramis looked confused.

“Can you ride?” Tréville asked.

“Ride,” Aramis repeated.

Tréville sighed and stroked his hair. “We’ll see, won’t we… we’ve got to try. Can you stand?”

“Stand.”

“That’s it,” Tréville said, shifting onto his knees. “Try and stand for me. Stand up.”

At first Aramis stared at him uncomprehendingly, but then he gave a jerky nod. “Stand.”

He swayed alarmingly, but with Tréville’s help, he managed to stay on his feet.

“Walk to the door.”

To Tréville’s surprise, Aramis followed simple instructions without complaint.

Once outside, his horse whinnied in alarm and nosed at Aramis’ body. To her dismay, Aramis did not react. Tréville looked at the distressed horse and decided against attempting to make Aramis ride her. Instead he guided him to his own mount. With a bit of awkward manoeuvring, he got Aramis into the saddle. He seemed utterly unaware of where he was or what he was supposed to be doing. Even leading the horse, Tréville was afraid Aramis would fall.

Getting a better look at him now, Tréville did not notice any injuries beyond the head wound. He scrubbed a hand across his beard. He was happy, of course, that Aramis seemed to have escaped the slaughter without significant damage, but his continued silence was unnerving. He’d seen it before, after some great battles. Soldiers lost their senses, were lost to the world for hours, sometimes days at a time. Tréville almost wished there was something obvious to fix; a broken bone to set, a bleeding wound to bind, something he could actually do for his man. As it was, the only things he could think of to help him were rest and warmth and nourishment.

Mounting behind Aramis and holding him in his arms, Tréville continued to make his slow way towards the town. He still stared into the fog ahead, searching for any sign of Marsac, but none would materialise. He shifted Aramis in his arms, trying to find a more comfortable position for him. Aramis let himself be moved like a ragdoll. Tréville shuddered. No man should be so unresponsive. He pressed their bodies closer together, chasing the hint of movement that meant that Aramis was still breathing. The dead weight in his arms was too close to the weight of a dead man.

Some time later he noticed that Aramis’ mare was following close behind just like the villagers had said the horse was following their ghost. Not the devil’s horse after all, merely a loyal beast concerned for its master.

Not a ghost haunting a village, but a man haunted by events beyond his control, his comprehension. Events that Tréville himself had caused, that he would have to live with from now on. Nobody could give absolution. Nobody must ever know. For France’s sake as much as Aramis’. The knowledge of how his brothers had died and why… Tréville feared it would break him entirely. And that could not happen.

Aramis survived and he would continue to do so. Tréville would see to that.


End file.
